The Luna Park Incident
by MissTempleton
Summary: A trip to Luna Park turns sour – the only thing that's clear to Jack and Phryne at the outset is that whatever happened almost certainly wasn't an accident.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

" _Daddy_ carry me p'ease," insisted Elizabeth Jane imperiously, stopping still and raising her arms.

Daddy didn't hesitate, and dropped Mummy's hand to swing Miss Elizabeth up onto his hip, from which vantage point she could better scan the crowd. Elizabeth had found that she liked people, as long as she could see their faces. At the age of not-quite-two years old, this preference had its own challenges, and she quite often had to resort to demanding the services of one of her Nearest and Dearest.

Happily, said N&D were both indulgent and numerous, and if the occasional butler, maid, doctor/godmother or taxi driver found themselves pressed into service, it was always on the understanding that Needs Must when the Devil (or demonic toddler) Drives. The fact that porterage was invariably rewarded with a big hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek made all the difference.

From the perspective of Daddy's hip, Luna Park became a lot more manageable for Elizabeth (who noted approvingly that once he'd settled her comfortably, he secured Mummy's hand again. A lady could get lost in such a noisy crowd, and if in doubt, she had been told always to look for a policeman. It was very considerate of Daddy to make sure that Mummy wouldn't have to look very far).

A chorus of screams met their ears, and they swung round with one accord to see – and hear – the Scenic Railway passengers taking in the scenery. The passengers in this case made up in quality what they lacked in quantity – only two young couples were on the ride, and the ladies were making most of the noise. The cars descended and ascended dutifully along their given track, hats and safety-bars gripped equally tightly by the occupants. The train raced to the curve at the top of the climb, and seemed to judder for a moment, then in a thrilling pretence, appeared to depart from its rails altogether, pitching the cars for a few ear-splitting (on the part of the passengers) seconds into clear air.

Then a few more seconds. And the screams stopped being thrilled and started to curdle the blood. And the cars – and the screams – stopped abruptly, in a patch of waste ground just outside the perimeter fence, one after the other, with the passengers landing messily on top of one another in a jumble of splintered woodwork. The brake-man's standing position saw him fly over them, a Luna angel with a regrettable lack of wings.

Daddy passed Elizabeth to Mummy, who calmly informed her daughter that they both wanted ice cream immediately, and turned both their faces resolutely away from a scene the likes of which Mummy had thought she wouldn't witness again after the Great War. Daddy sprinted, stomach churning, towards the Luna Park Incident.

A/N As ever, this is a work of pure fiction, built from the author's imagination, and bears no relation to the real-life, excellently-maintained environment of Melbourne's historic Luna Park.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Persuading Elizabeth to come away from Luna Park without Jack was no easy matter, requiring the minor bribe of a one-stop tram ride, and it was a frazzled Miss Fisher who eventually handed the child over to her nanny, Mary-Lou. She promptly turned about and returned to the Park at a brisk pace which saw her arrive at the gaping jaws of Mr Moon just as two harassed gate-keepers were successfully closing the gates on the last stragglers.

"Sorry, Miss, Park's closed," said one firmly, but Phryne had been expecting the attempt.

"I'm aware of that, and the reason for it – I was here when it happened. I'm Mrs Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson, and my husband is in there, leading the initial enquiry. I …" but she didn't need to continue. The magic words opened the gate a sliver, and she slipped through.

Married life occasionally had its advantages, and the Inspector's promotion hadn't hurt either.

She made her way to the scene of the incident and saw Jack deep in conversation with a corpulent gentleman in an ill-fitting suit. Or at least, there was a monologue being delivered. The volume was such that Phryne, even from some distance away, was able to catch such phrases as "safety record" "well maintained" and "more than my job's worth".

The Chief Inspector was listening attentively, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted to one side. Phryne knew that look. It was the one that he used at Aunt Prudence's parties when he was cornered by a guest keen to impart their advice on the best management of police resources in the city of Melbourne; because Aunt P's cocktails often had the effect of rendering her guests experts in everything from policing to the laundering of satin smalls.

Only by the merest flicker of an eyelid did he acknowledge her presence, and she backed off to scan the area. Through an opening in the perimeter fence of the park, she could see that the wreckage of the two-carriage set had been roped off, and the familiar figure of Sergeant Collins stood with his hand on the shoulder of a junior constable who was green in both experience and facial pallor. The reason why was clear enough, with four eloquently silent shrouded stretchers on the ground beside them; even as she watched, an ambulance was backed on to the ground and the process of removing the remains undertaken.

A thought occurred to her, and she cast her gaze wider; but there was no sign of a fifth stretcher. She walked closer to the ride, and as she did so, the ambient clamour of official voices gave way to an eerie silence – broken only by a snuffling sound.

Phryne edged nearer to the source, and came upon a child sitting alone, head buried in arms, shoulders shaking. Instinctively, she hurried to offer help.

"You poor dear!" she exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

The child lifted her head, and Phryne saw immediately that this was no child – though diminutive, the woebegone face was of a young woman.

"I'm fine," she muttered, and looked away pointedly, as though she didn't have tears pouring down her cheeks.

"You're plainly _not_ fine," replied Phryne sensibly. "I'm going to sit down here, on this side of you so that the rest of the world can't see how upset you are, and you're going to tell me why. Then I'm going to move heaven and earth to help you. How does that sound?"

A pronounced sniff was the only reply she got, but as the girl didn't move when Phryne plumped down beside her, assent was a viable working assumption. _Qui tacet consentire_ and all that.

"Did you know someone on the ride?"

The girl's head ducked in a nod, and she buried her face in her hands again. Phryne persisted, as gently as she could manage. "One of the passengers?" A head shake this time. "The brake-man?"

It was the only other option, and received no response. The brake-man it was, then. The man for whom she'd been looking when she came across this tearful waif.

"Do you know what's happened to him?" asked Phryne, digging out a hanky and proffering it gingerly.

The girl blew her nose noisily. "They took him in an ambulance," she muttered. She looked up at Phryne, "I don't know where. Nobody will tell me. But he wasn't … he wasn't …"

 _Dead_. Phryne could fill in the gaps readily enough. She rose to her feet. "Wait here," she said briskly, and strode off in the direction of the most senior police officer at the scene.

As she came into his line of sight, he looked straight at her, and the plea in his eyes could not have been more clearly telegraphed if he'd waved a flag over his head. She raised an eyebrow and a supplicant hand, breaking into the middle of the diatribe of his corpulent companion.

"Chief Inspector, I'm sorry," she said in a businesslike fashion. "A word?" Jack, without batting an eyelid, excused himself from the other man's presence, and took her arm, escorting her a few paces away.

"Thank God you arrived," he whispered. "I've listened to the same litany of Luna Park Safety Procedures seven or eight times now, but he won't believe I've taken them on board." He raised his voice. "How can I help, Miss Fisher?"

"I'm trying to find out what happened to the brake-man," she replied succinctly. "A young lady who appears to be more than just another punter is dissolving into a puddle of tears because no-one will tell her."

Jack glanced across and saw the girl who was hunched over Phryne's hanky once more. He narrowed his eyes and drew his gaze back to Phryne. "Multiple suspected fractures, but he was thrown clear of the carriages and was alive when he was taken to the Alfred." He paused, thinking quickly. "She could be a useful witness, but I don't want to scare her off …" he looked at Phryne speculatively.

"Want me to take her over to the hospital and see what happens next?"

"Want me to beg you to?" he responded sardonically. "Yes. Please. My tormentor over there has convinced me that if this was an accident, it wasn't a flaw in the ride – so I need to get the track examined thoroughly for any sign of sabotage. If you can get anything from the girl, that will help. Take Collins if you want – now that the bodies are away, Dixon will cope with assisting me."

She wrinkled her nose. "Much as I love Hugh, Jack, do you mind if I don't? There's a lot of him, and he's so thoroughly policeman-like that he might stop a frightened little witness opening up."

He grimaced, but saw the logic of the argument. "Very well. But I'm going to need some decent paperwork from you for once. An actual, written report Phryne. Think you can manage?"

"Of course, Jack," she said carelessly. Then quirked a grin. "Dot's typing's coming on by leaps and bounds these days."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Phryne managed to persuade her protégé – whose name, it transpired, was Nancy – to walk the short distance along The Esplanade to 221B, whence Mr Butler retrieved the Hispano-Suiza. She decided that her purpose would best be served if she rode in the back with Nancy, so Mr B was co-opted to drive, and the journey to the hospital was completed at a reasonable speed, without any of the violent disturbance of the flow of traffic that usually accompanied Miss Fisher's vehicular relocations from A to B when she took the wheel.

By the time they arrived, Phryne had extracted a nugget of information from Nancy, and was therefore able to ask for the whereabouts of one Gerald Harcourt. The receptionist, though, looked at her blankly.

"The bloke from Luna Park," said Phryne impatiently.

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? He'll still be with the surgeon," said the woman accusingly. She was buxom, unpainted and very comfortable in the role of accuser; having repelled boarders, she sat back with a satisfied snort and picked up a pencil, pretending to work diligently at the pristine register on the desk in front of her.

Phryne wasn't fooled, and had tackled far more challenging opponents than this one. "At what stage are you planning to inform Mr Harcourt's next of kin of his whereabouts?" she asked bitingly.

"Not my job, is it?" was the snooty reply.

"That's a pity," remarked Phryne. "Because this young lady would otherwise not have been left wondering whether her fiancé was still alive."

A veritable hit. Nancy's plaintive, tearstained little face surrounded by an elfin bob that only emphasised her waif-like qualities would have tugged on the hardest of heartstrings. And she might even be his fiancée after all; she was certainly not objecting to the moniker awarded her.

"Oh … well," blustered the woman, "I'm sure I don't know …"

Phryne leaned on the desk and offered her most honeyed tones. "Oh, please, I'm sorry, it was my mistake. If you don't have the _authority_ to give out information, we must simply wait." She paused for a couple of beats. "I'm sure Mr Harcourt's injuries aren't _actually_ life-threatening, and the _Detective Chief Inspector_ at the scene was exaggerating wildly."

She straightened, and turned to Nancy, taking her solicitously by the arm and starting to walk away. One pace … two paces …

"Madam?" came the strangled voice.

Phryne paused, and turned an enquiring glance over her shoulder. It turned out ego and snobbery were not, after all, insurmountable obstacles for a determined Lady Detective.

"If you go all the way to the end of that corridor, and through the swing doors, then take the first right. Ask there."

Profuse thanks were offered – just in case they had to return by the same route.

As it turned out, Mr Harcourt was no longer with the surgeon; Nancy caught sight of a familiar, if rather bruised face in a small side-ward as they followed their directions. She caught her breath, and would have thrown herself at the patient if there hadn't been a handy former ambulance driver to hold her back.

"Steady on, old thing. He's a bit fragile," Phryne said gently.

"Oh," Nancy gasped, and crept to the bedside as quietly as possible. "Gerry?" she whispered nervously.

There was no response, although the occupant of the bed was evincing signs of life in the shallow breaths he took.

"It's all right, it looks as though they've just doped him up a bit," comforted Phryne. "He's been through the wringer, poor dear."

Sure enough, there were signs of multiple broken bones having been set, and the patient's right arm was suspended in a sling at what was fondly imagined by the medical profession to be a comfortable angle. Dodging back out into the corridor, Phryne found a straight-backed chair, apparently designed with discomfort front and centre of the mind, and appropriated it.

"Here you go, Nancy – just sit yourself down here quietly. I don't suppose he'll wake up any time soon, but you can keep an eye on him, can't you?"

Nancy nodded, and sat, fixing her gaze on Harcourt's bruised face as though by willpower alone she could wake and/or heal him. Having disposed of her burden for the moment, Phryne went in search of medical experts, and found a terrifyingly young doctor in discussion with two nurses over a rather dog-eared document. She introduced herself and asked after the victim.

"Fractures of left femur, right humerus and right clavicle," said the doctor briskly. What he lacked in years he appeared to make up in boundless confidence. "That's all we know at the moment. Going to have to keep him in for observation in case there are internal injuries that haven't yet presented."

Phryne thanked him, and explained Nancy's presence. The young man frowned, but shrugged. "As long as she doesn't touch him, she can stay."

When Phryne returned to pass on the glad news, Nancy lifted her gaze from the recumbent form for a moment.

"Thank you, Miss Fisher. Thank you so much." Then she turned back to the patient, and Phryne felt herself dismissed. As she turned to the door, though, she bethought herself of one important detail, and turned back.

"Nancy? Who's Mr Harcourt's next of kin? Is there family we should inform?"

The girl didn't so much as shift her gaze. "No, no-one. Not anymore."

Phryne's brow furrowed at that, but there was clearly no point asking more questions at this stage. After a moment's internal debate, she returned to the Hispano and informed Mr Butler that she would take him back to The Esplanade and then head for City South; and she was encouraged to find the Chief Inspector present when she arrived. She was even more encouraged to catch him alone in his office for the requisite number of seconds Mrs Robinson regarded as the Bare Minimum to greet Mr Robinson appropriately. She then removed the misplaced lipstick with her thumb and perched on the corner of his desk.

"Finished at the scene already, Jack?"

He pulled a face. "I'd have been finished a lot sooner if I could have got rid of the Park Manager. Wretched man insisted on following me everywhere, explaining about safety; and let's just say he's not built for speed, so the climb to the top of the ride took a while." He scanned the last sentence he'd written and capped his pen. "How did you get on?"

"Well, we found the poor brake-man. Gerald Harcourt, or Gerry as Nancy referred to him. They're sweethearts, it seems – and she didn't take any exception when I promoted her to fiancée to get her to the bedside, so I'm guessing they've been walking out for a while."

"Did he have anything to say?"

"Not even a snore – they've set his broken bones and are keeping him under observation." She regarded him from under her lids. "I take it he's the only survivor?"

"He is. The four passengers have been taken to the morgue," said Jack.

"Do we know who they were?"

Jack sat back in his chair, hands clasped before him. "Bright Young Things," he said briefly. "One of the men was the son of the Hampton family; the other was his best friend, and the friend's younger sister. The other girl was Hampton's girlfriend."

"Melinda Hampton's boy?" asked Phryne. "Oh."

Jack looked at her sharply. "Oh, what?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Is it speaking ill of the dead when you're in a policeman's office?"

He sat forward and regarded her quizzically. "Think of it as the Confessional, Miss Fisher. What you say will go no further, unless I have to use it in evidence against you when you want the last tot of whisky."

She snorted. "In that case, Father Jack Robinson," at which he bit his lip to avoid an inappropriate smirk, "I should say that Jonny Hampton was the type to give Chinless Wonders the world over an even worse name than they already have."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"The Hamptons," Phryne strolled around the desk to settle more comfortably in the other chair, propping her chin on her hand, elbow resting on the chair's wooden arm, "have had no visible, new means of support for as long as anyone can remember."

"Rich?"

"Very," she confirmed. "Hampton père came over from jolly old England around the turn of the century – quite possibly in disgrace, though we don't talk about that these days. All the Polite World cares about is that his disgrace was tempered with a very healthy bank balance. He discovered the luscious Melinda in the music halls, and she discovered him – in every sense of the word," she said with an arch look.

The Chief Inspector got the message. "Shotgun wedding?"

"Actually, no," Phryne conceded. "Young Jonny didn't show up until a few years later. I can only assume that Melinda had the same enthusiasm for Miss Stopes' methods as yours truly."

The Chief Inspector pretended to be shocked, but as a direct beneficiary of the freedoms allowed by Miss Stopes' revolutionary ideas, he knew he wasn't fooling anyone.

"Mrs Hampton's now a widow, I gather?"

"She is; and to give her her due, she didn't return to the social circuit for ages after she lost her husband." Phryne twisted her lips into a cynical smile. "She's making up for lost time these days, though – Lehár's _Lustige Witwe_ ain't got nothing on La Belle Melinda; and Jonny's following in his mother's footsteps as fast and furiously as he possibly can."

She broke off as there was a tap at the door. Jack looked up, to see his newest Sergeant hovering on the threshold.

"Yes, Collins?"

"Sir – I just wanted to let you know that we were back and that we've completed the initial questioning of witnesses," said Hugh Collins briefly. "There was one thing I thought was worth letting you know straight away …"

"Go on?" encouraged Jack, and Phryne pushed her chair back a little to allow her favourite police sergeant centre stage. He blushed slightly (one of the things Phryne adored about Hugh Collins was her ability to disconcert him, often just by Looking. A girl could have a lot of fun Just Looking) and consulted his notebook to cover his confusion.

"I tried to ascertain from the ticket office how it was that there were only those four people on the ride at the time," he began.

"Surely it was just a quiet spell?" asked Jack. "They must have them?"

"But no, Jack, don't you remember? There was quite a queue by the entrance when we came through," Phryne argued. "It's a good point, Hugh – go on."

He smiled in a worried fashion (that was another thing Phryne could get him to do) and did as he was bid. "The girl on the ticket counter said that they had a letter, giving them a ride to themselves."

" _Really_?" asked Phryne avidly. "Who wrote the letter?"

"Apparently it was from Mr …" he broke off to consult his notes "… Cedric Lawson."

"Lawson?" the Inspector interrupted. "Now, why, in all the time that man was lecturing me on the safety of the ride, did he not think to mention that he'd invited them on to it himself?"

"What, was it the manager of the Park who invited them?" exclaimed Phryne. "That's extraordinary!"

"I think we need to bring him in and ask him a few more questions, Collins," said Jack. "Where's the letter?"

"That's the trouble, sir," Hugh replied. "The gentleman showed the letter, but then put it back in his pocket."

Jack considered. "Well, all right then, it will be with his effects. Get on to the Coroner's office – it's evidence, and we need it. Sharpish."

Collins nodded swiftly and departed.

Jack turned his attention back to the Lady Detective currently occupying her third-favourite spot in his office (her second-favourite being the corner of his desk and the absolute tops being his lap, but she wasn't usually allowed there because he could be terribly old-fashioned about some things, bless him).

"Did you get anything from the girl?"

"Not really – or, no more than the entirely understandable grief and shock of a young lady who looks to have been particularly fond of Harcourt," replied Phryne. "Come to think of it, I didn't even get her last name. Can I possibly telephone her at the hospital now?"

The Detective Chief Inspector was Pointedly Expressionless as he pushed the telephone towards what was quite possibly his least likely recruit in living memory. She flounced accordingly, and offered him a view of her right shoulder blade as the call connected. After only a little to-ing and fro-ing she managed to find the right ward.

"First, can I ask about Mr Harcourt? The young man who was in the incident at Luna Park?"

"Oh yes, he's regained consciousness a couple of times. No indication yet of any internal injuries, so that's a good thing, but we're still monitoring his state."

"Excellent. I wonder, would it be possible to have a word with Nancy, please? The young lady who's been watching him?"

"Who?"

"Nancy. His fiancée. She's been sitting beside his bed."

"There's nobody sitting beside his bed. Sorry. I'm afraid I have to go."

The line went dead, and Phryne was left looking blankly at the handset.

"Phryne?"

Jack watched her replace the handset as though it was pure nitroglycerine.

"Phryne?"

She met his gaze, speechlessly.

"Phryne, what is it?"

While she was attempting to formulate the answer, the telephone rang again. Jack picked it up.

"Robinson," he said curtly, his eyes still on Miss Fisher.

" _Detective Chief Inspector Robinson!_ "

"Dr Macmillan. How n-"

"You might want to continue your investigation at my office."

Jack dropped his gaze to middle distance, intent only on the call. "Why, Mac – what have you found?"

"It's not what I've found, Jack – it's what I've lost."

Jack groaned. "Mac, please don't tell me I'm going on a cadaver hunt again."

"No. I have the bodies. What I don't have is anything that they carried with them."

" _What?_ "

"There were four trays here, with the personal effects of each of the deceased, and Sergeant Collins just dropped by to look through them. The trays are here. The contents are manifestly not."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Sorry, Jack."

"Miss Fisher, I've told you before – when you're penitent, it confuses me."

"I feel a complete fool."

He removed his left hand from the steering wheel to grasp her right where it lay in her lap, and squeezed it firmly – then pretended to turn it upwards to examine it more closely, and shook his head.

"No, you're mistaken – just feels like the usual determined, stylish and occasionally brilliant Lady Detective to me," he stated solemnly.

She gave a reluctant smile, and when he released the hand, failed to retrieve it so that it fell carelessly into his lap. His eyes followed it for a moment, and he swallowed to try to relieve an odd new constriction in his throat, before returning ninety-nine percent of his attention to the road.

(The other one percent purred gently, but he did his best to suppress it with appropriate encouragement of the Hispano-Suiza's engine).

If the Coroner had put in any new security measures at the morgue by the time they got there, they were too subtle to be noticed. The sleuths wandered in and were discovered gazing disconsolately at a row of clearly-labelled empty trays by Mac, who had Most Definitely Not just nipped out for a quick smoke.

"Do _none_ of the doors in here have locks, Doctor?" The Chief Inspector had been fairly, er, relaxed by the time they arrived at their destination, but was once more regrettably tetchy.

"They all do, Inspector," replied Mac coldly. "Unfortunately, there are also a lot of people needing to pass through them at all hours of the day and night, and the nice thing about our patients is that they tend to stay put."

"It's probably my fault, Mac," confessed Phryne. "There's a very good chance that there's one piece of evidence that was here, and someone felt the need to retrieve it – and decided to take the rest, to be on the safe side."

"What sort of evidence?" asked Mac. "I have to say, whoever it was didn't leave so much as a hair to show they'd been here."

"A letter," replied Phryne. "Hugh Collins says that it was how they got the whole ride to themselves – a personal invitation from the manager of Luna Park." She gazed dispassionately at the blank display, and shrugged. "Oh well – I suppose we'll just have to ask him." She slanted her gaze to Jack.

He jerked his head back in horror. "Oh no. No, absolutely not."

Phryne bit her lip. "Jack, _I_ can't be the one to ask. And we need to get a home address for Harcourt, and hopefully Nancy's last name … it's really got to be another interview with Lawson."

Even as the Inspector closed his eyes in resignation, she took his hand. "Jack, it won't be so bad. I'll come along and play Bad Cop – let's face it, I can't be much worse than today's efforts. And you can't do it tonight, anyway – they'll all have gone home. You've got Dixon detailed to keep an eye on Harcourt at the Alfred; let me take you home for one of Mr Butler's roasts." She dragged at the hand she held. " _Come_ on, Jack."

He gave in, and even let her drive.

Dinner was delicious, but the night's sleep was a little disturbed. Phryne woke suddenly in the early hours to find a small, tearful figure standing beside the bed.

"Mumma, I can't sleep."

It wasn't like Elizabeth, and Phryne could only assume that there was some element of the day's tragedy that had stayed with her, despite the best efforts of all the family. She sighed, pulled on a robe and gathered the little girl into her arms, carrying her back along to the nursery, all the while carrying on a whispered conversation on the most prosaic matters possible, to send the monsters back to their lairs. As she reached the top of the stairs, she was startled to meet Mr Butler, likewise garbed in dressing gown, ascending them. He appeared equally surprised, but covered the reaction with his usual aplomb.

"Sorry if I've disturbed you, Ma'am," he whispered. "I realised I hadn't checked the locks on the windows on this floor."

"Not disturbing us at all, Mr B, and you don't need to check the boudoir – thank you," she whispered back, and they proceeded on their respective missions.

She didn't see him stop to look back and make sure she'd entered the nursery before he carried on.

One mercy was that seeing not one but two of her extended family very obviously looking after her made Miss Elizabeth settle quickly, and Phryne was back in bed within minutes. A stray hand searched for hers, and in a loose, friendly, sleepy clasp, oblivion was achieved once more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Having established that Harcourt had spent an uneventful, if uncomfortable night, and that Collins had himself relieved Dixon in the early hours of the morning (thus demonstrating to his seniors that although inspiration might sometimes be lacking, their newest sergeant was a born leader), the Detective Chief Inspector partook of as hearty a breakfast as any condemned man had ever dubiously enjoyed, and was practically frogmarched by Miss Fisher back to Luna Park, where they were ushered into the rather disreputable cupboard which was Cedric Lawson's office.

"Inspector!" he exclaimed as he bustled around the desk to search fruitlessly for sufficient guest seating. "I didn't expect you back quite so soon. And … er?"

He didn't quite dare be rude to the lady who'd been able to commandeer the great man's attention yesterday, but she very obviously wasn't a police officer. The lady offered a society smile and society handshake.

"The Honourable Phryne Fisher. Lady Detective," she explained briefly.

"Oh!" Lawson was taken aback. "Oh, dear me, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I really can't allow …"

"Miss Fisher is assisting my with a key aspect of the investigation, Mr Lawson, and I have asked her to join me this morning in that regard."

Mrs Robinson took advantage of the fact that her back was momentarily turned to Lawson to raise her eyebrows, just in case Mr Robinson had already forgotten the way she'd joined him that morning.

He twitched his nose to show that he hadn't, and frowned fiercely over her shoulder at Lawson.

"Well, it's most irregular," objected Lawson.

"Funny you should say that, Mr Lawson," remarked Phryne conversationally. "There was something else a bit irregular about yesterday's events, and we were hoping you might be able to enlighten us."

He eyed her resentfully, but said nothing, waiting for the question.

"My men were enquiring," said Jack, "about the reason why there might only have been four passengers on a ride that should normally take – twenty people?" A nod confirmed the estimate, and Lawson's eyes narrowed.

"One of the young men in the party was in possession of a letter of invitation," Jack continued. "It offered the exclusive use of the ride for him and his friends."

"Oh! Well, that can sometimes happen. We have promotional events now and again; the charities are always asking us for raffle prizes and so forth …" hazarded Lawson. "The directors have been known to be generous in that way."

"Oh, are you a director of the company, Mr Lawson?" asked Phryne ingenuously.

"No! Me? Dear me, no," exclaimed Lawson, with just the right hint of distaste in his tone that some society floozy couldn't tell who was a director and who a person who Got Things Done.

"But the letter was from you," she remarked with another society smile.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Miss," he said dismissively, turning to the Inspector with barely-hidden irritation.

"Oh, no, Miss Fisher's quite correct," responded Jack levelly. "My sergeant established yesterday in the course of his questioning that the letter presented to your staff was on your paper and apparently signed by you."

Lawson sat down heavily in his desk chair. He was, for the first time, apparently short of words, and a fine beading of sweat formed on the outer reaches of his forehead.

"Are we to understand that you _didn't_ write the letter of invitation to Mr Jonathan Hampton?" asked the Inspector.

Lawson looked at him, panic-stricken. "I didn't. I really didn't. I swear it. I couldn't, anyway. I don't have the authority to do a thing like that."

Phryne surveyed him for a moment, and decided to take him at his word. "Then who could have written it, Mr Lawson?"

"What?" He snapped his head around to her, and stared wildly for a few moments. She tipped her head calmly in interrogation, and he collected his thoughts. "A letter … on our letterhead? With my signature?" She nodded affirmatively to both questions. "Well … I suppose … if someone had access to this office, they could … but it would have to be when I wasn't here, of course …"

"Do you lock your office, Mr Lawson?" asked Jack.

"Well, yes. Every night."

"But … during the day?" asked Phryne.

"Well, no. There's always someone around to keep an eye … oh."

Sleuths exchanged weary glances. They both, regretfully, believed him.

"Can you supply me with a full list of the staff on duty yesterday?" asked Jack. "I know my Sergeant questioned everyone in the vicinity at the time, but it appears we may need to cast the net wider. I also need the home address for the brake-man, Gerald Harcourt, and further details of a young woman, first name Nancy, who we believe to be a close friend of his."

Lawson nodded hastily at the requests, and began searching through ledgers and files.

"I'll just …" said Phryne vaguely, and cast her eyes to the door. Lawson was intent on finding the right page in his attendance ledger, so the Inspector was able to roll his eyes at her and nod. _By all means, Miss Fisher, go and play while I do the boring bit_.

She slunk out, and paused as she re-entered the park ground. It would have been too much to ask that Nancy would pop up before her, proffering the missing literary evidence, but surely someone would know the girl?

Phryne shoved her hands in the pockets of her raincoat – the nearest thing she had to a mirror image of the one Jack wore, and a deliberate attempt to blend in with him in Lawson's eyes. (Had she but known it, Lawson was an ankle man, and the Inspector had been left standing in that regard. It was as well they didn't know – she'd have been annoyed to have missed an opportunity and the Inspector faintly aggrieved for reasons he wouldn't want to examine too closely).

Strolling over to the entrance to the Scenic Railway, which was mournfully advising all comers that it was Closed For Repairs, she could hear sounds of mechanical activity, but could see no signs of its source. There was a train set in front of her, though, so she clambered around it, and came across a businesslike posterior.

"Hello," she said in a friendly way to the left buttock.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The buttock's owner put down his tools, placed one hand on the small of his back and straightened gradually, with a groan.

"I'm getting to old for this lark," he informed her. "Can I 'elp?"

She stuck out a hand, and didn't even flinch when it was grasped in a large and oily paw. "Phryne Fisher. Looking into yesterday's accident. With the police – there's a Detective in with Mr Lawson right now so I said I would come and look around." She drew her hanky out of her pocket to wipe the oil from her hands.

"Eh, it's a bad business," said the mechanic. "One thing for certain, though – nothing wrong with the ride."

"Oh?" said Phryne interestedly. She could make allowances for the man's professional pride, but a little detail wouldn't hurt. "How can you be sure? – sorry, I don't know your name."

He propped himself against the nearest car, folded his arms and eyed her up and down before replying. "Lenny. Unless I'm in strife, in which case it's Leonard, You Fool." He winked. "Married thirty-three years last April. She oughter know by now." Phryne grinned appreciatively. "The ride, though? I checked it myself yesterday morning, just like always."

"It gets checked every week?" she asked.

"Every day, more like. All the rides get serviced every day," Lenny said. "And that's not all, neither. They get a complete check every month, and they get certified once a year." He frowned and looked away. "Not saying we've not had accidents, mind you, but you could count 'em on the fingers of one hand and it's always been because some joker's acting up."

"The whole 'keep your arms and legs inside the ride thing'?" asked Phryne knowledgeably. She had, after all, partaken of the joys of the Scenic Railway in the past.

"Too right. If folks could only realise we don't make up the safety rules for fun, she'll be apples," said Lenny succinctly.

"So … what happened this time?"

Lenny frowned at her. "Doesn't make any sense, to be honest. It looks like the bogie at the front of the front car left the rails on the corner."

"Bogie?" Phryne took a certain pride in being stupid at the appropriate moment. This was one of those, and she could only assume Lenny wasn't referring to malevolent ghosts – or at least, not directly.

"Yer, bogie. This bit," Lenny broke off, and turned to tap the underside of the car with his toe. Phryne realised that what she'd assumed was a firm base with wheels at all the corners was in fact a sleigh with two trolleys on the underside, each able to pivot independently.

"How could that happen?"

"Couldn't. It's pretty much impossible. Unless someone had cut out a section of track – which they hadn't – there's no reason why the bogie should leave the track. The brake-man slows the carriages at the start of the dip, so that when they get to the top of the re-ascent, the carriage is almost stopping."

"What if he didn't, though? Or couldn't, for some reason?"

"Didn't what?"

"Slow the carriages down?"

He looked at her disbelievingly. "Well, he just _would_. He'd be mad to let them run without braking. That's his whole job – he's the one operating the ride, from the minute it gets to the top of the climb at the start."

He shrugged. "You wouldn't _not_ brake. It'd be suicide, else."

Phryne formed a silent "Oh" and excused herself, climbing back across the ride to descend to the ground just as the Chief Inspector appeared at the door of Lawson's office. Catching sight of one another, they headed by common consent for a quiet corner, away from prying ears.

"What have you got, Jack?"

He flourished a closely-written list before tucking it into his inside pocket. "The full list of staff on site yesterday, plus those who were working any time in the previous week. That's where I want to start looking for the author of that letter. Also," he flipped open his notebook, "an address of the boarding house where both Harcourt and Nancy – Crosthwaite, by the way – were staying."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Phryne. "Let's go there straight away. You can drive, because I want to tell you about a very interesting conversation I've just had with a mechanic."

The Inspector debated for a moment whether it was worth pointing out the inappropriateness of Miss Fisher accompanying him to the boarding house on police business, but concluded that a) he would lose and b) at least he was getting to drive.

"Have you been pestering Rude Mechanicals again, Miss Fisher?"

"On the contrary, Jack – Lenny was extremely polite." She viewed her right hand with a grimace. "A bit oily, mind you." As Jack politely opened the car door for her, she took out her hanky again and scrubbed fruitlessly at the marks.

By the time they arrived at the boarding house, Jack had been apprised of the mechanic's views.

"So, you think the brakes had been tampered with on the ride?" he asked.

"It's either that, or Harcourt deliberately tried to cause the crash himself – which is ludicrous," argued Phryne. "What are the chances of anyone being able to tell from the wreckage of the train whether the brake was working properly?"

"Well, they'll have to have a go," surmised Jack. "I'll get Collins to look into it when he comes back on duty."

The landlady of the boarding house disapproved of them both from the outset, and not even the generous application of Honourable titles or Inspectorly seniority appeared to make one whit of difference. She showed them to the door of Nancy's room and stumped off without so much as a backward glance.

"Charmed, I'm sure," remarked Phryne sarcastically, as Jack rapped smartly on the door.

There was a pause, and the door opened a crack.

"Hello, Nancy," smiled Phryne.

"Miss Crosthwaite, I'm Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson, and I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about the incident at Luna Park yesterday. May we come in?" asked Jack politely.

"Do I have to let you in?" asked the girl sullenly.

"No, you don't; but it would give me reason to suspect you had something to hide, and I might invite you to the station to discuss it," said Jack easily.

The door opened slightly wider.

"I just want to be left alone. What do you want?"

"What is your relationship with Gerald Harcourt?"

"We've been walking out for a few months, is all."

"You were very upset when he was so badly injured, Nancy," said Phryne gently. "Why did you leave his bedside?"

Nancy hesitated. "I – was hungry. I hadn't eaten all day. I went to get something to eat. Gerry was unconscious."

"He has actually regained consciousness a couple of times," said Jack, watching her closely.

"He has? That's brilliant. Can I go and see him?" She looked from one of them to the other.

"Of course. As long as the hospital will let you."

"Can I go now?" She was already reaching for a coat and making for the door. The Chief Inspector acquiesced, and she clattered down the stairs, hurrying off in the direction of the tram stop without a backward glance as they followed her out of the door.

"Well, Miss Fisher?" asked Jack, hands in pockets, watching the departing girl.

"She wasn't surprised, was she Jack?" Phryne said, eyes also following the small figure. "When you told her he'd regained consciousness."

He turned to face her. "No. Her words were of surprise; but she knew." He took her hand, and led her to the Hispano. "Come on, Miss Fisher. Take me to City South – I want to make sure that there's one of my men watching Harcourt when she gets to him." As he sat her in the driver's seat, he leaned on the door for a moment. "Then I think I want a warrant."

She nodded. "Gerry Harcourt's room?"

"Indeed. I want to know him better, and I think that's the only way it's going to happen right now."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The warrant was obtained, but not without some exercise of the Detective Chief Inspector's persuasive abilities, and a very heavy reliance on the vanishing evidence. In the end, assistance came from an unexpected source; Miss Fisher paid a visit of condolence to Mrs Hampton. Although utterly distraught at the loss in one fell swoop of her son and some of his closest friends, and trying hard to forget the difficulties attendant on the subsequent police interviews, Melinda Hampton once again demonstrated the steel which had won her the heart, wedding ring and bank balance of one of the wealthiest men in Victoria. With only a little prompting from Phryne, she picked up the telephone and reminded a certain magistrate of a very interesting party that absolutely had _not_ taken place in 1923.

Detective Chief Inspector Robinson knew better than to enquire more deeply, but was waiting on the front steps of City South Police Station when the Hispano-Suiza executed a handbrake turn that was as thrilling as it was unnerving for the baker's boy on a bicycle that it narrowly missed.

"Hop in, Jack!"

If the landlady at the boarding house had disapproved of them before, it was as nothing to her disdain for Search Warrants. She escorted them to a larger room than Nancy's, at the back of the house, with a depressing outlook on to the wall of the house behind, and stood in the doorway, arms folded, cigarette hanging from her mouth as Jack and Phryne took stock. Phryne eyed the woman with a sidelong glance, and Jack could practically feel the bristles of her fur rising; but he managed to deal with the situation rather more elegantly than might otherwise have been the case.

"Please, come in; if you have the time, I would very much like to ask you more about Mr Harcourt, and we can do that while we search."

"En't got time to be chattering, some of us 'as work to do," the woman growled, and stomped off.

Phryne closed the door gently behind her. "Oh, well done, Jack. I was itching to slap her sulky face."

"I know," he said. "And arresting one's own spouse for assault can be a tricky operation."

She stuck her tongue out. "So, what are we looking for?"

"I wish I knew," he sighed, scanning the room once more. "I'll start with the drawers, and any papers. What's that thing you're always saying? Love or Money? Let's see if we can find any suggestions of a lack of either."

He opened the top drawer in the chest, and found a heap of paperwork and unopened post. Lifting it all out, he started to sort through, methodically. Phryne watched him idly for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the room. Jack might get to know Harcourt through facts and figures; she preferred to draw a picture.

She opened the small wardrobe, and found just one Sunday suit, and a couple of shirts in need of a button or two, and the attentions of a flatiron. Suddenly, she wished for Dot, her partner in detection, who was so much better than she at 'reading' clothes; but fetching her would involve the dreaded landlady and was not to be borne.

She turned her attention to the room's decorations. Apart from a small and grubby tankard that suggested Harcourt had at some point been quite good at darts, the only other leavening to the rather grim environment was a small collection of photographs on the mantelpiece.

One was of Harcourt himself, with Nancy; she was looking up at him and laughing, and he was grinning at the camera; they looked as though they were in Luna Park. There was another of him with a pretty brunette, arms around each other's waists.

No sign of Nancy. A previous girlfriend?

She passed on to the next, and stiffened.

" _Jack!_ " she whispered.

"What?" He looked up from perusing a bank statement.

She picked up the photograph and carried it across to him. He glanced at it, and frowned at her. "Sorry, should I know these people?"

"Well, I don't know who the two people on the left are," she said. "But the girl on the far right is in another picture over there, with Gerry Harcourt, so they must have been close. And _that_ " she pointed, "… is Jonny Hampton. With his arm round Mystery Girl's shoulders."

Jack snatched the picture from her, and peered more closely.

"Hang on, I think the other bloke might be Dennis Niven – the best friend who died. And the other girl looks a lot like him – his sister?"

"Don't you know? I mean, you saw them …" Phryne's voice trailed off. "Oh. Sorry."

He returned her gaze, in tacit confirmation; despite having seen the bodies, he couldn't confirm that the young people in the photograph were the deceased. Then looked again at the photograph and with a terse "wait here," left the room, taking it with him. A minute later he returned, to find her leafing through a cheque book.

"Jack, look, this is funny," she remarked without looking up, flicking back and forth through the stubs. "There are monthly cheques, always for five pounds, always to the same payee, just called 'Deb'. But they stopped six months ago. Who do you think 'Deb' might be?"

"I don't think – I know," he said tersely. "It's Deborah Harcourt."

She snapped her head round. "His _wife_?"

He shook his head. "The landlady was persuaded to tell me at least this much. Deborah Harcourt is his younger sister."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Phryne simply gaped at him. "But that makes no sense either. Nancy said he had no next of kin!"

Then her eyes narrowed. "Hang on, no, that wasn't it. She said he had no next of kin _any more_. Did Deb Harcourt die? So young? That would be awful."

Jack tipped his head. "If she died, it could have been six months ago – that was when you said the payments stopped going to her."

Phryne shrugged. "We could wade through the records of deaths …"

"… or we could just ask Nancy," finished Jack.

"I agree. I think she knows what happened – we only need to apply a little pressure in the right place," Phryne affirmed. "Come on!"

But when they arrived at the Alfred, they found Nancy sitting in the corridor outside Harcourt's room, whence she had clearly been banished; the room was a hive of activity.

"Nancy? What's going on?" asked Phryne urgently.

"It's his blood pressure. It's falling really sharply, and they don't know why. And they won't let me be near him." The girl was distraught; but even as she spoke, the doctor came out of the room and stood before them.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. I think it's the spleen – the ribs were bruised in that area, but we thought that was all. If the spleen was torn, he will have been losing blood without us knowing. He's asking for you, Miss."

Nancy thrust the man aside and raced to the bedside, Phryne and Jack following at her heels. The girl grabbed Harcourt's hand, and at her touch, his eyes flickered open, and he looked at her directly. The smile in them was ephemeral but unmistakable.

"It was worth it, Nance. Sorry," he whispered. Then his eyes closed and Gerry Harcourt was no longer there.

Nancy slumped over the bed, shoulders shaking, and no-one had the heart to stop her.

Jack took Phryne's hand, and the two of them retired to a discreet distance.

"Can't we just leave her be, Jack?"

"I would if I could, but walk away from the only material witness in a multiple homicide – if that's what it was? You know I can't," he muttered. Then squeezed her hand. "Stay with me, though? Once she's had a little while, we can get this over quickly, and the questions will come better from you than me."

It was about twenty minutes later when Nancy appeared in the doorway. She showed no reaction in the slightest to seeing the two sleuths waiting for her, but walked slowly past them towards the hospital entrance. Phryne fell into step beside her; Jack followed at a discreet distance. When they got outside, darkness was falling; but one of the lamps outside the hospital illuminated a bench, and Phryne gently guided her to it. The two women sat, with Jack standing on Nancy's other side.

"Nancy," asked Phryne carefully, "will you tell me about Deb Harcourt?"

"I might as well," she shrugged. "It doesn't matter now."

The story came haltingly, with occasional stops to blow her nose; but the girl was brave, and her voice become steadier as the relief of unburdening took hold.

"Deb knew Beth Niven – they'd been at school together. Deb was really smart – a scholarship girl. She used to help Beth with her homework and things. Then Beth introduced her to her brother Dennis, and Dennis brought Jonny Hampton in. And that was it – Deb was smitten. Jonny was an idiot, but she thought she could marry him and reform him. She couldn't, of course – never would have done – but it meant she was prepared to … let him have his way with her. Gerry found out what was going on, but he didn't ever meet Jonny – didn't move in the same circles, didn't _want_ to."

"Then Deb found out she was pregnant, and told Jonny they'd have to get married."

She looked at Phryne with fury in her gaze. "Do you know what he did? He laughed at her. He laughed, and he told Dennis, and Dennis laughed too. And Beth laughed. And they dropped her – just like that. As though she was nobody, and she didn't matter. A toy they'd got bored with and broken. And Jonny took up with Margaret Driscoll straight away; they were in the society pages the very next week."

"What did Deb do then?" asked Phryne gently, though she was starting to have an idea.

Nancy stared straight ahead of her.

"She bought a ticket to Bendigo, found a room in a boarding house, and slit her wrists in the bath," she said tonelessly. "Gerry found out because she'd left him a letter in her bag. He had to go and fetch the body home."

"Did he tell Hampton, or any of the others?" asked Jack.

"No way. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. I didn't know what he'd planned, though – I didn't know the crash was deliberate until he came round at the hospital and asked me to go and get the letter from Hampton's effects – we thought he was going to survive, then," she broke off for a moment and took a deep breath before continuing, "and it was the only thing that showed how he'd done it."

She fell silent, and Phryne looked up at Jack for a moment, before placing a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Come on. Let's take you home."

They hated to leave her alone at the boarding house, but having handed over the stolen effects of the four victims, she insisted she wanted to be left in peace, and they took the hint; Phryne did battle with the landlady, emerging victorious with a hot cup of tea, and promising to call by in a few days. By mutual consent, Jack took the wheel of the Hispano and with a short detour via City South to drop off the evidence and brief Sergeant Collins, they made it back to 221B in time for a very strong drink before dinner.

"Do you have to charge her, Jack?" asked Phryne as they sat down to a consommé as delicate as the question.

He shook his head. "Admitted, she obstructed my process; but it wouldn't have changed the outcome of said process even if we'd had the letter earlier; Harcourt would still be dead. No, she's suffered enough."

Then he gave a half-smile. "And it occurs to me to be glad we went to the station before we came home. I – theoretically – am supposed to have the day off tomorrow."

"Lovely!" she exclaimed. "Shall we – theoretically – have a family day out somewhere?"

"An excellent idea, Mrs Robinson," he agreed, raising his wine glass to her. "Though not, perhaps, to Luna Park?"


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Jack was first aware of the arrival of the new day when there came a pounding in his head. The momentary panic that he had, for once, failed to get up for work was allayed when he recalled that he had the day off, and was then replaced by the realisation that the pounding was not in his head but outside the house.

To be more specific, on the walls of the house.

"Phryne?" he muttered.

Silence.

He was, as was always the case at that time of day, liberally covered with his wife's limbs, and stretched a hand to find, unerringly, the point behind her knee that would elicit a response. It had the desired effect, albeit the groan was definitely not on the pleasurable end of the auditory spectrum.

"Whaaat?"

"Someone's attacking the house. I thought you'd want to know."

A deep sigh.

"No, they're just re-pointing the tower room."

Jack considered this for a moment, and reached for his wristwatch on the side table.

"At seven o'clock in the morning?"

"Mmm."

He resented the implication that there was no more to be said, and thought of the person who might object even more than he did.

"Won't Soo mind?"

"No. She's moved down to the ground floor while they work. The old morning room."

He remembered the morning room. A legacy from a different era for the house, it had served as a storage space for dust sheets and not much else. He began, despite the interruption, to drift back towards oblivion. There was something faintly hypnotic, after all, about the steady chipping away of old cement.

Then another thought occurred.

"Phryne?"

"Mmm?" She'd been expecting a follow-up, he could tell.

"Didn't you have the whole house repointed just after you moved in?"

"Mmm."

He opened his eyes a crack and looked at her face, opposite his on the pillow; and took a moment to thank whatever stars had aligned to give him such a view.

She was smiling slightly.

"I'm curious, Miss Fisher. Why are we having apparently unnecessary masonry work done on our house?"

The smile widened. When something went wrong, it was _their_ house. When all was perfect, it was _her_ house. As one who hadn't planned to marry, she'd not strayed too badly down the unplanned route.

"It's only unnecessary if you are happy with Soo staying in the tower room." Her eyes slitted open a little, and he could read the humour even through the bleary morning gaze. "I don't know about you, Jack, but I'm quite tired of encountering either Mr Butler 'doing a check on the first floor windows' in his dressing gown, or Soo 'popping down to the kitchen for a cup of tea', in the middle of the night."

She shut her eyes again, and curled round him more closely.

"I'll be interested to see if she remembers to move back upstairs again."

Realisation dawned. He smiled too, and once more marvelled at his wife's determination to arrange her world to her own satisfaction.

Tobias and Soo had never really stood a chance.

His arm tightened around her shoulders, and he relaxed back into the pillow; but was disturbed by a whine from the region of his left collar bone.

"Jack?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm awake now."

"Oh."

A short silence, then an accusing fingernail tapped him on the chest. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Well … I have the day off. We could just go back to sleep. Or …"

"Or?"

Or.


End file.
